Rebirth 04: Starting from Taking an Unconventional Approach

"President Han," Wild Grass said, "I won't lie to you, but sitting over there listening to Old Locust and the others talk just now, I felt both flustered and uneasy. They're all cultured people, they speak so eloquently, while I, a steelworker, felt completely uncomfortable sitting there. But I didn't want to leave. This is the first time in my life that someone has given me an award, the first time someone has told me that what I wrote... is useful."

Han Fei smiled slightly: "Teacher Wild Grass, do you know what I was thinking after hearing what you just said?"

"What?"

"You just said that after you finished writing Liu Chunmei's story, they actually kept asking you more questions. That's because although the story is finished, the truth hasn't been fully revealed, and the people haven't been properly taken care of. Now, your 'Living as a Widow' has allowed tens of thousands of people to see Liu Chunmei's plight, and it's making readers curse Zhao Youcai and pity Li Laowai. This is not just publishing an article; it's writing a biography for unfortunate people like Liu Chunmei, and it's letting out the anger that has been bottled up in your heart for many years, on behalf of the entire village and that Widow's River."

Wild Grass's eyes lit up, then dimmed again: "But I'm just a steel bar tier, sitting with those intellectuals at your publishing house, I always feel..."

"You think you're inferior?" Han Fei exhaled a puff of smoke, took out the printed data sheet for "Living a Widow," and handed it to Wild Grass. "Teacher Wild Grass, take a look. There's no other reason why I asked you to stay behind today; it's just that the data for your work on our platform is higher than many authors who graduated from university Chinese departments. Your work has brought us over five thousand paying users, and the total number of readers has exceeded ten thousand. This shows that readers don't care about your educational background; they only care whether your writing touches their hearts. Your writing can touch people, and that's skill. Besides, not all the other teachers outside were university graduates. But if readers like what they write, we'll accept it. Our platform doesn't look at status; it only looks at ability. Once you get to know them better, you'll find that we're all ordinary people, and no one is more noble than anyone else."

Wild Grass stared blankly at the data sheet, clearly trying to process the information and Han Fei's words. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and nodded slowly. Then he picked up his teacup, but only held it with both hands, without drinking the tea, as if the cup was just for warming his hands, even though his forehead was covered in sweat.

"Teacher Wild Grass," Han Fei said, "aren't you still thinking about that old bachelor who went to Liu Chunmei's grave and that old Wang who longed for his daughter at the construction site? That's the material for your next piece. You don't need to think about writing a long essay. Just do it like 'Living a Widow,' and pour out what you see and what you think, exactly as they are."

"President Han, I understand everything you've said." Wild Grass looked at Han Fei, hesitated for a moment, took a few sips of tea, and lit a cigarette. This time it was his own cigarette; Han Fei had never seen this brand of cigarette before, and it didn't have a filter. He took out a small, crumpled notebook with curled edges from his pants pocket and handed it to Han Fei.

Han Fei took it and saw that the cover was covered with oil stains and cement spots, as if it had been picked up from a construction site's garbage dump. He turned to the first page, which only had one line of crooked pencil writing.

The village chief slept on Widow Liu's kang (heated brick bed) for three years. The year her son was admitted to university, the village chief had his leg broken at the village entrance.

The notebook rustled as he turned another page.

The foreman's sister-in-law always smiles at the workers whenever she comes to the construction site, a smile that sends chills down their spines. The foreman says that every time she smiles, his wages will be three days late that month.

Han Fei took a breath and continued flipping through the pages. The last few dozen pages of the notebook each had a similarly thrilling opening, some only a single line, others half a page. Han Fei was deeply shocked, feeling his adrenaline surge through his veins, making him excited.

The strongest man on the construction site would always hide in a corner and speak in a voice barely audible when his wife called. Once, someone overheard him begging his wife not to let their child call someone else "Dad."

The village chief's daughter-in-law gave birth to a son. On the day of the baby's one-month celebration, the village chief got drunk and, holding his grandson, said, "He looks just like him, so much like him." His son's face turned green.

Widow Wang, who lived at the east end of the village, suddenly became pregnant when she was forty. She wouldn't say who the father was, and the villagers guessed eight times before finally discovering it was the mute man from the west end of the village. The mute man had been Widow Wang's blacksmith for twenty years, a fact her husband knew while he was still alive.

The contractor had a mistress who owned a barbershop in town. Every month on the 15th, the contractor would go there for a haircut, and then go upstairs to stay for two hours. His wife knew about it but never complained; she only went to the bank to withdraw money on the 16th of each month.

The new vegetable-chopping girl at the construction site canteen was only seventeen and quite pretty. The foreman glanced at her a couple of times, and that night someone dumped excrement in front of his door. The foreman was furious and investigated for half a month without success. Later, someone saw it was the canteen's chubby auntie who did it. The chubby auntie said her daughter had been violated at sixteen, and she couldn't bear to see such things in her life.

On the day Little Sichuan left, Aunt Pang secretly slipped two thousand yuan into his bag. Little Sichuan refused. Aunt Pang said, "Take it, use it to get married." Little Sichuan cried and said, "Aunt Pang, wait for me, I'll come back for you when I'm successful." Aunt Pang laughed and said, "Silly child, I have a man."

......

Han Fei looked up at Ye Cao, his gaze a mixture of surprise and curiosity. He was astonished that such captivating writing could come from such a pair of hands and such a simple notebook. These dozens of pages contained dozens of short sentences, each one packed with information, brimming with suspense, and brimming with conflict—almost perfect outlines for a blockbuster new media novel. Ye Cao not only possessed the ability to write a complete story with delicate strokes, but also seemed to have an innate ability to extract the story's most compelling moments.

What intrigued him was how many vivid characters and stories like Liu Chunmei and Li Laowai were still etched in the mind of this seemingly dull and self-conscious migrant worker? How many unique perspectives, like those of academic writers, had his life experiences given him that they couldn't create? If guided properly, and allowed to develop stories around these beginnings, how many more works like "Living as a Widow," or even more popular ones, could be written?

Most importantly, behind the wild grass, how many other authors like this live at the bottom of society, possessing rich experiences and a primal desire for expression? If we could unearth these people, and transform their stories, buried deep in our hearts and imbued with blood, tears, and the soil, into words, what a massive and solid content barrier that would be!

"Teacher Wild Grass," Han Fei said, trying to hide his excitement, "how long have you had this notebook?"

"It's been four or five years," Wild Grass said. "There are some things I want to write down, but I don't know what the point of writing them down is. So... I'm just keeping them like this."